Meetings in the Mist
by Willow-41z
Summary: A series of oneshots.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: This is the first in a series of one-shots, most of which take place during the incidents of _Crown Duel_ and _Court Duel_. I call them "Meetings in the Mist" because they portray events that we read of, or presume to have occurred, but are not actually present at as readers.

They will not go in any particular order, but this one is about Princess Elestra and Prince Alaerec shortly before the last battle of the war.

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Years before she had made a legendary ride across Remalna to warn the old king of the pirate threat, crossing the kingdom in two days of torrential rain. Now Princess Elestra traveled in more comfort.

_Even so_, she thought, climbing out of the carriage with as much grace and dignity as she could muster after the journey from Athanarel, _my bones are stiff_. She looked quickly around the Renselaeus courtyard, seeing, among the gathered servants and the bustle of arrival, her husband but not her son.

"Welcome home," Alaerec murmured as they embraced. She knew by his body language that he had news for her. After many years together, they no longer needed words to communicate. "Uneventful trip?"

"Relatively so," she agreed. They would say no more until they were behind the safety of closed doors-- the years had taught them that, too.

When the servants had brought hot listerblossom tea, and closed the door behind them, Elestra sank into the comfort of a chair, looking away from her husband as he did the same-- with more grace, she noted wrily. He did not like to have his pain observed, but even when his old wound from a pirate's sabre bothered him, as it almost always did, he moved with more finesse than she. Their son had inherited this trait of his father's, thankfully, rather than his mother's innate clumsiness.

"Danric is not here," Alaerec said, holding a cup of tea out to her, then pouring one for himself. "The Astiars were ambushed on their way back to Tlanth, and he went to meet with them."

Elestra nodded, thankful that the children of her old friend were safe-- for if they were not, Alaerec would not have phrased his statement thus. "And from there?"

"Battle," her husband answered.

Elestra felt a sudden pang in her heart that she would not see Danric again before he rode to what could be his death. She nodded. "Galdran and Debegri are still marching on Tlanth?"

Alaerec nodded. "They're quite furious. And now they have learned of our betrayal. I was glad to see you safe inside the palace gates."

"And our borders?"

"Well-defended by those who did not go with Danric."

Elestra set down her tea-cup. "I gave him our blessing," Alaerec murmured. "He knows your thoughts, and mine, are with him."

She smiled, not surprised that he had been able to read her thoughts so easily. "Thank you," she said, and shook her head. "I wish..."

It was pointless to go on. There were too many regrets, and dwelling on them served no purpose. Regrets for her brother, the murdered Duke of Savona, and his wife; for Ranisia, Countess of Tlanth, another of Galdran's victims; for all the bright nobles who had quietly disappeared over the years. For the war. For not getting to say good-bye.

Alaerec leaned over and took her hand. "So do I," he said quietly. "So do I."

They sat like that for many minutes, drawing strength from the other's presence; then Elestra straightened up and said with a small smile, "I understand you had the pleasure of entertaining the Astiars."

"I did," Alaerec said, giving his wife an astute look. "It was a pleasure."

Elestra relaxed. Her silent question had been silently answered. Alaerec knew she had ordered her driver to travel more slowly than necessary, and knew why, too: to avoid meeting the Astiar children at Renselaeus. She had guessed how her son felt, perhaps even before he had; guessed from the silent worry in his eyes as they plotted to free the Countess. But she had also guessed how the Lady Meliara felt, from what Danric had not said rather than what he had. From the omissions in his tale she drew a picture of the Countess's behavior towards her son, and Elestra remembered the old Count of Tlanth. She had not wanted to find the daughter a copy.

So she relaxed in her chair. "I have never met them," Elestra said. "What are they like?"

"Much like their mother," Alaerec answered, "in appearance and temperament, as well as personality." His eyes narrowed in the amusement. "Meliara, in particular, is very much like her mother."

"How so?" Elestra asked.

Alaerec's merriment grew into a rare smile. "She threw a candlestick at Danric."

"In front of you?" Elestra was astonished.

The prince shook his head. "No. I saw the bruise, and questioned him about it."

"Bruise?" she echoed, raising an eyebrow.

"From catching it," he clarified. Elestra, vividly remembering a similar incident with Ranisia, didn't know whether to be appalled or amused. "As I understand it, Lady Meliara believed us to be holding her brother captive. Danric said she was quite appalled at herself when she found out the truth."

"Ah," Elestra said, nodding. "Have they resolved their differences, then?"

The prince shook his head, and his face became serious. "I told you that the Astiars were ambushed on their way home. Lord Branaric was shot. The note I received from Danric implied that Lady Meliara blamed him for the attack."

"Her brother should be able to convince her otherwise--" Elestra stopped at the look on her husband's fae.

"Meliara escaped the ambush and returned to Tlanth," he said. "Before our ridings arrived. Danric believes her to be planning an attack on Vesingrui."

Revenge was a powerful motivator-- and from everything Elestra had heard, the Countess of Tlanth was impusive, like her mother before her. But Elestra had faith in her son to handle the situation. She only hoped that Meliara was not foolhardy.

"You observed him at the dinner?" she said, meaning their son.

The faint smile returned. "I observed them, yes," Alaerec said.

Elestra felt the corners of her own mouth tugging upwards as she realized what her husband was implying. "I am glad to hear it."

"I also observed that the Countess seems to be unaware of her own emotions," Alaerec cautioned. "Her primary feeling towards him seems to be resentment-- and confusion."

Elestra nodded. "Understandable, given what she has gone through. I hope he can explain in such a way as to resolve things for her."

"You know Danric," Alaerec said.

"Yes, and I also knew Ranisia," she reminded him. He inclined his head in acknowledgement, smiling a little.

Elestra looked at the time-candle. "Have you arranged any sort of message system with him?"

"We agreed that he was to write when he was able," her husband answered, knowing what she was really asking. "Assuming he was able to convince Meliara of his good intentions this morning, they should be returning to her brother."

"And they march?"

"Two days hence."

Elestra laid her hands on the table, looked down at them, looked up at her husband. "We have all three of us faced greater dangers before," he reminded her, "and escaped unscathed."

Yes: and sometimes they had not been so lucky. Alaerec, sensing her thoughts, laid his hand on hers. She moved around the table and sat next to him, and they sat there, talking without words.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: Much of the information regarding situations, characters' responses, who knew what when, etc., is derived from Ms. Smith's postings at Athanarel or CastleTlanth. If you want to see where I'm getting the canonical basis for something, message me and I'll send you the excerpt.

Also, I forgot to post a disclaimer on the first chapter. Neither the characters, nor the world, nor the situations are mine, but rather Ms. Smith's.

The footsteps of the Renselaeus soldiers died away, and then Khesot was left watching the man in front of him, trying to glean information from his inscrutable expression.

He did not know where the four men he had come with were; somehow the soldiers who had captured them had known exactly who each was, and had separated him from the rest of the group. Khesot had more hope for their honorable treatment from this man and his people than he would have had they been captured by any other, but there was no denying they were in a bad situation: he'd made a mistake, and now he—and his four men, and every single Tlanthi on the ridge above—would pay the price. Had he allowed himself to feel guilt, it would have swamped him. But he knew he needed to be calm and emotionless now.

"Khesot of Tlanth," the young Marquis of Shevraeth said, and Khesot met the inscrutable gaze evenly.

There was no point in denying his own name. "Yes."

"My people found you inside the walls."

There was even less point in denying that. "Yes."

"What brings you to Vesingrui?"

Khesot stared back at the nobleman, not answering. He knew the Marquis would not resort to torture to get the information he wanted; knew that much from the war. He knew the other man knew he knew it, too. Therefore he would have to use other methods, and Khesot did not know what those might be.

The Marquis gestured to a side table. "Would you like something to drink? Or eat?"

Khesot blinked. Apparently one of them was surprise; he ought to have expected that. "No, thank you."

The other man stood up, walked around the table, looked outside for a long moment. That particular window did not face the hills where the Countess and her people were hiding, and Khesot wondered what the Marquis was seeing. How much time remained before the Tlanthis attacked? Khesot knew there was not enough. He needed time to think, to make sense of conflicting information. Lady Meliara had told them of Shevraeth's dishonorable betrayal, yet he was treating Khesot with honor now, and had acted with integrity during the war. Whose side was the nobleman on?

"Count Branaric is not dead," the Marquis said, turning away from the window, and Khesot looked at him in surprise. "He took an arrow—as I'm sure you heard—but is recovering, and will live." When Khesot would have been startled into speaking, the Marquis held up a gloved hand. "You needn't decide whether you believe me just yet; permit me to share some of what I believe." He paused. "Lady Meliara escaped the ambush unharmed and returned to Erkan-Astiar, convinced I had betrayed her brother to his death. Knowing that Debegri was riding against Tlanth, she set out on a mission of vengeance, hoping to die fighting, and led her people here." He looked closely at Khesot. "Is this true?"

Khesot didn't say anything, and the silence stretched out. But this was not a defensive silence, as the earlier had been; it was contemplative. The Marquis, perhaps sensing his inner turmoil, waited quietly. Only after several minutes did he add, "Whatever you answer, you shall have safe passage back to Tlanth."

"Along with my men?"

"Yes."

Khesot nodded once, slowly. "If you did not arrange the ambush, who did?"

"Debegri," the Marquis said, with a slight movement that might have been a grimace of distaste. "I failed to consider the possibility that he would have spies watching for the Astiars' return until it was too late."

"And if I confirm your guesses, what will you do?" Khesot said slowly.

"Attempt to convince Lady Meliara of the truth."

Khesot nodded again and stared down at the ground. He had told Meliara that he was not certain there was not another explanation for the events; he had asked for the scouting party to find answers, and now he had them. If he could believe the Marquis.

As he thought furiously, three things were foremost in his mind: First, the Renselaeuses had helped the Countess escape from Athanarel, at great risk to themselves. Second, Khesot had always suspected that the Marquis had known where the bulk of there army had lain, during the war—and yet he had never attacked. And third… third was Khesot's gut instinct.

"Yes," he said finally, looking up. "Yes, she is here, and many of our people with her." He hesitated. "In the hills, waiting to attack at dawn."

"Thank you," the Marquis murmured, walked to the door, and spoke to someone outside for several minutes. But he did not leave, as Khesot expected, or summon soldiers to take Khesot elsewhere.

So the soldier asked, "And now?"

"Now," the Marquis said, "assuming the Countess's errand is indeed one of revenge—" he paused.

"Yes," Khesot confirmed, then felt compelled to add, "She wants to kill you personally."

The skin around the Marquis's eyes tightened briefly—very briefly, but enough for Khesot to call it a wince. "She will not believe anything I tell her."

"No." Then Khesot, suspecting what the Marquis was thinking, said, "The only proof she would accept would be the sight of her brother."

The nobleman shook his head. "He's in a woodcutter's cottage on the border of Tlanth."

"Then you will have to convince her to accompany you there," said Khesot, stating what they both already knew.

"I fear the only way to accomplish that is an unpleasant one, and it requires your aid," said the Marquis.

Khesot studied him carefully. "What is your plan?"

The other man hesitated. "To take her prisoner."

Khesot was startled, and alarmed, but listened carefully as the Marquis described his plan. When he had finished Khesot nodded once. He did not like the necessity, but knew Lady Meliara would not stake her own life against that of her people. "I will do it," he said.

"Thank you," the Marquis said again. "And I must ask your further cooperation on another matter."

"What is it?"

"That you keep silent about the role you played."

"You do not wish your true allegiance to be known," said Khesot.

"No," the Marquis agreed. "I must continue the masquerade a little longer."

Khesot hesitated. "I will do this as well," he said. "But the Tlanthi people will not be easily placated. Not believing the Count dead and his sister a prisoner."

"They will know the truth very shortly," replied the nobleman. "In the interim, perhaps the approaching threat of Debegri could be employed to keep them occupied?"

Khesot heard the third thing the Marquis was asking him to do: to keep the Tlanthi from attacking again and ready them for possible war. "Perhaps it could."

A discreet tap on the wooden door, which Khesot guessed was present to provide the commander of the fortress some measure of privacy. The Marquis moved towards the door. Khesot stopped him. "Wait." He hesitated again. "Is there no… message, nothing from Lord Branaric you could tell the Countess to convince her he is alive?"

The Marquis shook his head. "No." Khesot's surprise at the definite answer must have shown on his face, for the nobleman added, "Count Branaric believed his sister would remain in Tlanth to prepare for battle with Debegri rather than come after me. And had I such a message, she would not believe it."

"No," Khesot agreed, knowing he was right. Still, he wished there was a way to persuade Lady Meliara. He had seen her grief, and it was a burden no one should have to bear.

"We will ride quickly," the Marquis promised as if he could read Khesot's thoughts.

"We will wait for her return. For their return," Khesot added. The sky was beginning to brighten in early dawn, and he followed the Marquis out of the room to what awaited next.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Completely my own invention; there's no textual support for it. And yes, I am still working on "Mel Sees the Light"—I have another update nearly ready to go—and I have another chapter of this almost done, from _Court Duel_, from the point of view of a major character. But… this happened.

Illyk the stableboy peered over the shrubbery. "_That's_ the Countess of Tlanth?"

The girl next to him, Mora, tugged on her dark braid. "Don't stare, Illyk. It's not polite." She looked quickly over the bush she was sitting against, then back down. "Yes, that's her."

"She looks so… so… _ordinary_."

Mora looked up at him. "Well, how did you expect her to look? She's a lady, Illyk. That's what ladies look like."

"She didn't look like that when she came to Court last year."

"She was a prisoner. And a soldier."

Illyk scowled. "Still. She's famous. You'd think she'd look it."

"Well, I think she's pretty," Mora informed him. "And Alicia says her Aunt Mora says she's nice. And she ought to know, being her maid and all."

"Who's the other woman?" Illyk said, looking back over the shrubs.

"Lady Nimiar Argaliar," Mora informed him. "She's engaged to the Countess's brother." She sighed. "They're in love. It's so sweet."

Illyk wrinkled his nose. "Love is for girls." Mora threw a dirt clod at him; he brushed it off. "Oh, look now!"

Mora knelt beside him, animosity and admonitions forgotten as she peered over the bushes with him, watching the Countess and Lady Nimiar approach a group of two men and a woman.

"Now, Lady Tamara is what I would call pretty," Illyk said with satisfaction.

Mora scowled. "She's mean."

Illyk looked over at her. "How would you know?"

Mora turned up her nose. "I just do, that's all."

"You're just upset 'cuz she dropped the Duke of Savona," Illyk said, tugging on her hair. "The way you carry on about him, you'd think you'd be ecstatic."

Mora flushed. "I am not. And I do not. My cousin knows Kerael, her maid. That's how."

Illyk shrugged. "She's still beautiful. Her eyes? And her eyelashes? They write sonnets about them." He sighed.

Mora laughed. "Now who's in love?"

Illyk scowled. "Am not."

"Are, too," she teased. Illyk elbowed her. They watched in silence as the Countess and Lady Nimiar made their farewells and walked on. Lady Tamara and her flirts turned back to their game, but not before the unseen observers caught a sharp look passing between her and the duke of Savona.

"They say she's chasing the Marquis of Shevraeth now," said Illyk. "Lady Tamara, I mean. Not the Countess."

"Really?" said Mora. "I like him, too. He's nice."

Illyk snorted. "He's a gambler and a fop."

"That was an act, silly," Mora said. "To protect him from the king."

"He sure did a good job," Illyk said doubtfully.

"He had to," said Mora. "You know what Galdran was like."

They were quiet for a minute. Then Illyk said, "Remember the time he sent his dinner back because it had too much salt?"

"And then threw half the kitchen staff in prison for trying to poison him?" Mora shivered. "The Marquis will make a much better king."

"How do you know? You've never met him."

"Have, too," she informed him. "Mother sent me to the library one day with tea, 'cause someone had called for it and they were shorthanded. And it turned out to be the Marquis, and he smiled and thanked me just like I was a regular servant. And then he asked me about the book."

"What book?" said Illyk. "You didn't mention a book."

"I'm getting to that!" she said. "I had a book with me, 'cause I'd been reading it and I thought it was just a scribe or such wanted tea. And he asked me about it, and I said it was about Theraez, the Marloven queen. And he asked me if I liked it, and I said I did. And he said reading was the best way to improve yourself, no matter if you were a noble or a servant or what." Mora stopped for breath.

"And then?"

"Well, and then I had to go back," said Mora. "Mother was furious when she found out I'd served tea to the Marquis—with a book!" She sighed. "He's handsome, too. But not as handsome as the Duke," she added loyally.

Illyk grinned. "See? I told you."

Mora elbowed him. A faint voice was heard, calling her name, and her eyes widened. "I've got to go. If Mother finds me here she'll be furious. She doesn't like it when I spy on the nobles!" She scrambled to her feet, quickly dusted off her dark-blue dress, and ran down the pathway.

Mora sat in the dark, her back to a tree trunk, and scowled down at her braid. In the six months since the Countess of Tlanth had arrived at Court, she'd tried to grow her hair out like every other woman, noble or not. But no matter how much she tugged on it, it wouldn't grow.

She leaned her head back and sighed, wishing she was just like Lady Meliara. She was so brave! She'd defeated Galdran, and then that awful Flauvic-man… and the Duke had flirted with her… and she had _such_ hair…

"Mora!" a voice hissed from above, and she jumped. "Mora, up here."

She looked up and saw Illyk's pale face peering down at her from between two of the boughs. "You frightened me!"

He put a finger to his lips. "Shh. Come up here."

Looking dubiously at her dress, she scrambled up the branches until she was sitting next to him. "What?"

He pointed, and she followed his line of sight towards a pair of figures seated on a bench in the garden below. Mora frowned, trying to see who it was. Then she saw the familiar red hair. "Oh!" she said. "It's the Countess!"

"And the Marquis," Illyk added. "I guess they slipped out here to get away from the party."

Mora fingered her hair. "It must be rough. People talking about them everywhere they go."

"Well, it was a surprise, you know," said Illyk. "The nobles all thought she hated him."

Mora giggled. "But we knew better."

"After she started sending him letters," Illyk agreed.

They watched quietly as the Countess leaned her head against her betrothed's chest and smiled up at him. Then the Marquis bent down and stole a kiss.

Mora pressed her hand to her mouth. "It's so _sweet_!"

"Girl stuff," Illyk grumbled, but he, too, was smiling.

The quiet reverberation of voices from the other direction caught Mora's ear, and she turned around, touched Illyk's shoulder, and pointed. "Illyk, look."

They both shifted on the branch to look down at the other couple. With a pang, Mora recognized the powerful build and dark hair of the Duke of Savona, and the fair skin and long hair of Lady Tamara. They were seated on a bench together, but not relaxing like the Countess and her Marquis. Lady Tamara was scowling down at the ground; she twisted away from the Duke.

"They're arguing," Illyk whispered in her ear, and she nodded.

"Can you blame them?" she whispered back. "They flirted with other people for nearly a whole _year_!"

"I wish we could hear them."

Suddenly Lady Tamara rose to her feet, her chin tilted up and her eyes flashing. She made to storm away, but the Duke touched the back of her wrist lightly, and she paused. Then he said something, something short, but apparently it had meaning to her: she stopped dead, opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again.

The Duke stood up and offered her his hands, palms up; after a moment she hesitantly took them, looking up at him through those famous eyelashes. They stood like that until he put his arms around her and kissed her.

Mora giggled. "I don't think we really need to," she said, watching as the seconds passed and neither of the nobles moved. Then a tardy sense of decorum kicked in, and she primly turned away just as Lady Tamara pulled away and gently brushed a lock of hair out of the Duke's face.

Illyk was watching her. "What?" she said.

He nodded down to the newly-reconciled pair. "I thought you'd be more upset."

She shrugged. "You're right. I don't know him." Then Mora smiled. "Besides, they look so happy together!"

"Good," whispered Illyk, and as he leaned closer to her, Mora realized he was going to kiss her.

It was her first kiss, for she technically wasn't old enough for such things. It lasted just a minute, then Illyk pulled away; Mora had been too startled to do anything but sit there. She put her fingers to her mouth, then blushed and grinned shyly up at him. A part of her reflected on how nice it was, and a part of her shivered at what her mother would say if she found her in a tree, kissing the stableboy! But most of her mind thought that, while it might be nice to be Lady Meliara or Lady Tamara, it was much nicer to be Mora.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's note: This isn't the one I mentioned in the Illyk and Mora story, obviously. That one is about Russav and Danric. But, like the other one, this kind if happened. I have more ideas than I know what to do with at the moment, so who knows when the other one will be finished.

The sound of a drawling voice woke Bran, and he stood, wincing as the motion tugged at his still-sore shoulder, and opened the door. "Danric," he greeted the Marquis jovially. "Got everything all settled?"

"For the moment," was the cool reply. "Much of it can only be handled from Athanarel."

"Then I guess we'd best be on our way," said the Count, falling into step beside Vidanric and walking with him to the small room at the end of the hallway.

"Indeed," Vidanric said, and to a passing equerry, "Please ask Lady Meliara to join us."

Bran seated himself on a low mat. He looked up in time to see Vidanric's expression change as he looked at his papers; just then the equerry returned. "She's not in her rooms, milord. We're looking in the grounds and stables."

The Marquis shook his head. "No. She's gone."

The equerry bowed and departed. "What'd'you mean, she's gone?"

Vidanric handed him two pieces of paper. "These were on my maps."

One was the incriminatory letter from Debegri; on the other, in large, childish handwriting that he recognized as Mel's, was written _You'll probably need this to convince Galdran's old allies._

Bran handed them back. "Burn it!" he said. "I just talked to her not a time-change ago. She didn't say anything then."

"She wouldn't have," the Marquis murmured.

Bran blinked. "I suppose not." Then he sighed. "Burn it. I wish she'd at least waited so we could've sent someone with her."

"Given her last experience with an escort," Shevraeth said wryly, "I doubt she would have agreed."

"Probably not," Bran admitted. He scratched his chin. "I honestly thought she was going to stay. I knew she didn't want to go to Athanarel—said she'd be useless. But I didn't think she'd go haring off like this."

"Meliara thought she'd be useless in Athanarel?"

Bran nodded. "To tell the truth, I had much the same feeling. But I know there has to be something I can do, even if it's file papers and such." He watched the Marquis. "I take it you had something in mind for her to do there?"

Shevraeth nodded. "Indeed. But it's of no consequence. I would rather have her willingly in Tlanth than against her will in Athanarel."

Bran looked at him sharply, then scowled again. "I'll never understand her."

"Your own range of experiences during the war was more, shall we say, limited than hers," the Marquis reminded him. "Which may explain her recent actions."

"You mean that because the war was worse on her than on me, it makes sense for her to want to go home?"

"Perhaps."

Bran hesitated. "How bad was it, really?" he asked. "She told me some of it, but—well, obviously she's good at hiding things from me."

Shevraeth was silent for a moment. "Many a lesser person would have given up," he said at last. "It was not a pleasant experience for her. But I do not think she has taken any lasting hurt from it."

"She said you saved her life in the Chovilun dungeon?"

The Marquis hesitated. "Yes."

Bran frowned. "What was she doing there?"

"Debegri took her there."

"He was going to kill her?" Bran's eyes flashed.

Shevraeth hesitated again, then said, "He was going to torture her."

Bran's reaction was sudden and violent. He slammed his hand down on the floor and swore fluently. When he finally stopped, his mouth was a thin line, and the Marquis reflected that it was just as well Nenthar Debegri was already dead.

"Sorry," Bran said, glancing up. "Well, no I'm not, really." He scowled. "I'm never there for her when she's in trouble!"

"Perfectly understandable," Shevreth murmured, remembering the thoughts that had been going through his own mind as he and his equerries galloped headlong for Chovilun, not knowing if they would be in time or not—and the second of gut-wrenching horror at finding Meliara in the dungeon, cornered by a brute of a man about to hold red-hot iron to her. "But allow me to point out that your sister has a remarkable felicity for getting out of dangerous situations on her own."

"Not that one," said Bran.

"No," the Marquis agreed. "If it helps, she felt much the same way when you were ambushed by Debegri's men."

Bran winced. "I know. She went after your blood."

Shevraeth shrugged, a motion that looked odd on him. "A natural reaction," he said, hiding a wry smile.

Bran sighed. "Well, she's gone and that's that. I'll write to Khesot, make sure she gets home safely." He looked up at the Marquis. "When do we leave?"

"Tomorrow morning," was the answer. "It's a two-day ride. We should arrive near sundown three days from now."

Bran nodded. "I remember the place." Suddenly he laughed.

Shevraeth looked up in polite inquiry.

"It's just that mother used to talk about sending us to Court when we were older," he explained. "Not for long—she changed her mind, when Mel was about five. Hated Athanarel. But she thought we should go, to learn what was going on." He shook his head. "And now we've both been, but, well, I don't think that was quite what Mother had in mind." His face grew sober. "Definitely not for Mel, at least."

"No," the Marquis murmured in agreement.

Bran looked at him. "She told me what happened. I can't really blame her for not wanting to go back."

"No," Shevraeth agreed again. "Nor can I."

Bran stood and stretched. "I suppose there's not much to talk about, seeing as Mel's gone. I'll see you in the morning, then." He flicked a quick, casual salute, then left.

Shevraeth dealt with the remaining papers on his makeshift desk, then extinguished the candle and stretched out on the low cot. But sleep did not come immediately, held at bay by thoughts of a red-haired Countess. He knew precisely why she had left.

Bran returned to his room, where he found a meal waiting for him. He ate it absent-mindedly, thinking of his sister, and half-wondering if he oughtn't ride after her. But there was work to do in Athanarel.

He did not sleep immediately, either. He thought of Mel—and of the flickers of emotion, nearly imperceptible, that had flashed across Shevraeth's face at certain points in the conversation. Bran laughed, rolled over, drifted off to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Ugh… OOC. This is the third time I've tried to write this, though, so I'm posting it for now. Hopefully I'll revise it.

Meliara was light, and was easy for Russav to carry her back to her rooms.

Her maid met them, wide-eyed for only an instant. "What happened, Your Grace?" the woman asked, helping him set Mel down on a stack of cushions. The Countess groaned, but didn't open her eyes.

"She had too much to drink," Russav said. The woman's eyes widened again; she knew the social repercussions of getting publicly drunk. "Unintentionally," he added.

"Does anyone ever get drunk on purpose?" the woman murmured.

Russav smiled, though he thought the remark hadn't been intended for his ears. "True enough. I'll leave her to your care."

Leaving the corridor, he turned towards the Royal Residence Wing. He had an unpleasant task to perform.

Danric was indeed still working in his study, reading by the flickering light of a single candle. He glanced up, gave Russav a weary smile, and then looked closer. "What's wrong?"

Russav sighed heavily and seated himself cross-legged in front of the low table. "Tamara got Mel drunk."

Danric stopped writing abruptly and put his pen down. "_Drunk_?"

Russav nodded.

"How?"

"By serving her blenis punch," the Duke said disgustedly. "Of course she didn't know to stay away from it." He shook his head. "She gave Mel bristic, as well."

Danric was silent. Looking at his stiff shoulders and wide, unfocused eyes, Russav knew he was furious.

Finally he said, "How is she?"

"I do not envy her her headache in the morning," Russav said, "but she'll be fine. I left her in the capable hands of her maid."

"You escorted her out?"

Russav nodded. "Not," he said regretfully, "before everyone in the room noticed she was drunk." He ran his hand through his hair, throwing it into wild disarray. "I should have been watching. Of course Tamara would be planning something."

"It's not your fault," Danric murmured. "No one could have anticipated something like this."

"I should have," Russav said. "This is, after all, Lady Tamara Chamadis we are speaking of." He took a sheet of blank paper from his cousin's stack and fed it absentmindedly to the flames. "I often wondered whether her ambition knew any bounds. Now I know. She--" He shook his head; both of them were already angry enough. "I think the others left shortly after."

"Then they recognized Tamara's scheming for what it was."

"Or they merely decided to follow my lead." Russav brushed ash from his fingers and looked at his cousin. "You seem calm."

"On the contrary," Danric said dryly. "Had I been there, I probably would have said something utterly unforgivable. It's just as well I was dining with my parents."

"Had you been there, you would have noticed her scheming and acted sooner," Russav said, irritated with himself.

"Perhaps, though I think Tamara would have done her best to make sure I didn't notice until she wished me to."

Russav stirred his fingers through the ash. "What do we do now?"

Danric rubbed his eyes, a rare gesture of fatigue, and the candlelight illuminated the deep hollows on his face. "You have already affirmed your partisanship for Meliara."

"That will help," Russav agreed. "If only because they don't want to be on the losing side of a court battle. But most of them genuinely like her." He smiled, thinking of the remarkable ease with which Mel had won the courtiers over. Initially, that had been because of Russav's interest, but as he had said, most of them genuinely liked her. He wondered if she was aware of it. "I think everyone in the room was disgusted with Tamara. Excepting our esteemed hostess, of course." He remembered the cold, hard look Tamara's eyes had worn as soon as he had stepped forward to steady Mel. Russav had not looked back as he walked out, but he knew Tamara well enough to picture how she would have looked: face a hard mask, eyes glittering, hands perfectly controlled as she watched everyone make abrupt excuses to leave.

"It will be up to Meliara," Danric said, interrupting his thoughts. "Assuming the others recognized Tamara's intent, they'll be watching for her response."

_Tamara's made a lot of enemies_, he thought. _No small wonder_. His jaw tightened in anger at Tamara's pettiness. "They'll be expecting Mel to give her the cut," he agreed. "Or hoping." If Meliara wasn't familiar with that particular Court custom, Nee, or someone less well-meaning, would quickly enlighten her. "But somehow I can't see her doing it."

Danric shook his head. "Nor can I." He was quiet for a moment. "I've learned that trying to predict Meliara's actions is usually a fruitless endeavour," he said dryly. "But were I forced to guess, I would say that she and Tamara will spend the duration of her stay here in mutual avoidance."

Russav frowned. "That would be difficult."

"We manage it well enough," Danric said wryly.

Russav smiled. "True." Then he frowned, thinking. "What could have possessed Tamara?" he said finally. "It would have been spectacularly horrible had it worked, but now her reputation in Mel's hands. She must have known I wouldn't have sided with her."

"Do you think she did it on purpose?"

Danric's question confused Russav by surprise until he realized his cousin was speaking of Meliara, not Tamara. "It would have been a risky gamble," he said at last.

"True," Danric agreed. "But now Meliara, and everyone else, knows exactly what Tamara was planning. There are few other successful ways she could have found out."

"It certainly aligned nearly everyone on Mel's side," Russav said. Then he sighed. _Why does Tamara have to be like this? Why can't she let things be?_ He knew the answer: ambition, and childhood training. The Chamadis countess's parents had hammered into her the lesson that she was not good enough unless she was the best, and of course the competition ground, and stake, was social status at Court.

Danric still looked puzzled. "She had to know Tamara was planning something."

"We did, but her chosen… _method_… still caught both of us by surprise," Russav pointed out, then added disgustedly, "Perhaps the Countess was laboring under the mistaken impression that there were depths to which Tamara wouldn't stoop."

"Perhaps," Danric agreed, and Russav saw his hand tighten on the table for a moment. Then he sighed. "I feel responsible. If I hadn't asked you to make her popular, this wouldn't have happened."

"Mel would have had a horrible time at Court," Russav pointed out.

"I know," his cousin said. "But I still feel accountable for fixing this."

"How?" Russav asked after a moment.

Danric shook his head. "I don't know. Your influence might be enough to resolve the issue, but if it's not, I can't appear partial. The Merindars would hurt her to get to me."

"The courtiers take Meliara's side," Russav said. "Most of them want to see Tamara fall. My influence shouldn't be needed."

His cousin nodded. "The only action we can take, until Meliara chooses a course of action, is to assure her that no one blames her."

Russav smiled. "I think I know how. May I have some paper?"

Danric slid a stack across the table, along with a pen, and Russav began writing to the Tlanth countess, inviting her to a picnic. On another sheet he made a list of all the people he told her he was inviting, so he'd remember to write to them, too. Those who had attended the party were on the list, with the definite and conspicuous exception of Tamara.

After a few minutes he became aware that Danric was also writing steadily, and glanced at the top of his cousin's letter: it was to Meliara. Russav laughed.

Danric looked up. "What?"

"If she could see us now," Russav said. "Plotting strategy like military generals!"

His cousin looked startled, then smiled. "She'd probably throw something at me once she realized I was her Unknown."

"Come, come," Russav chided gently. "She wouldn't. She doesn't hate you."

"She didn't hate me before, but I still ended up with a bruise," was the wry reply.

"But I thought you said the two of you were past the projectile stage?"

"I did," Danric admitted. "Attribute my dramatics to the lateness of the hour."

Russav looked down at his letter, and realized he'd let himself for at least another hour of writing invitations. He groaned.

"You know what they say, Russav," his cousin said with a raised eyebrow. "No rest for the wicked."

"You would know, " Russav muttered.


	6. Chapter 6

The knock on the door came late, at first blue. Kerael was sitting in her downstairs room, embroidering a handkerchief, when she heard the three sharp taps. She hurried to answer.

If the morning's visitor had surprised her, so did this one, especially as she knew he was missing a ball. "Your Grace?" she asked with widened eyes.

"Is your mistress in?" The Duke's voice was uninflected, nearly sharp, and his customary smile was absent. She was about to answer in the affirmative when his face went absolutely blank, his eyes fixed on a point behind her, and Kerael knew that Lady Tamara had appeared.

Silently she backed away and opened the door, closing it quietly behind the noble. She probably could have slammed it, and neither of them would have noticed; the Duke was staring coldly at her mistress, who met his gaze, but not without blushing.

Kerael made herself scarce, but couldn't help lingering at the top of the stairwell for a few moments. She knew why he was here, of course; all the servants had heard what had happened the night before. And she had delivered a note from her mistress to the runners, addressed to the Duke of Savona; she could only assume that it had been an invitation, or entreaty, for a meeting.

Lady Tamara had spent most of the night walking the floor or staring out the window. Kerael was tired too, having stayed awake to provide fresh listerblossom tea that had gone undrunk, and to hang up her mistress's party gown when she had finally changed out of it sometime in second white. Then Lady Tamara had spent the morning in ill-concealed nervous agitation, pacing her anteroom and starting every time someone had knocked on the door.

But it had been the Countess of Tlanth, not the Duke of Savona, who had finally appeared. Kerael had overheard their conversation from the next room. Their lives would be so much simpler if they had our sources of information, she had thought. Kerael had finally understood, after that, the reason behind the gossip: her mistress had gotten Lady Meliara drunk because she was jealous of her. But it was ridiculous for Lady Tamara to be jealous of the Countess when all the servants knew she was secretly corresponding with the Marquis of Shevraeth!

Then the two had left together, and Kerael had taken the opportunity to dash out and tell her fellow servants what was going on. They, in turn, had told her that the Duke was having a picnic that afternoon, and that everyone who had been at Lady Tamara's party, except the hostess herself, had been invited. At that point Kerael had concluded that her mistress would not be receiving any answer to her letter.

Lady Tamara had finally consented to eat something after returning from that walk, but she'd barely touched her food, sending it back not noticeably diminished. Sometime during the afternoon she'd somehow found out about the Duke's party, and she'd sat stony-faced until nightfall, moving only to her desk where her paper and pen were. But every time she started a letter, she'd crumple it up after a few lines or even a few words. Kerael, quietly cleaning up after her, had looked at the salutations before burning the papers in the downstairs grate. Most of them were to 'Russav'; some were to various other members of the court.

Reluctantly, Kerael continued downstairs. The voices above were too faint for her to make out, which was a good sign. Or so she thought until they abruptly grew louder, and she heard the duke say, "… dirty, underhanded trick!" He was practically yelling. Lady Tamara's reply _was_ yelling, but too agitated for Kerael to understand.

Quietly—though it wouldn't have mattered if she'd jumped up and down as hard as she could—Kerael sent for fresh listerblossom tea, then sat down and tried to finish her embroidering. After a few minutes she abandoned all pretense of work and listened, half-fascinated, half-frightened. She'd been Lady Tamara's maid for years, and she knew that when her mistress fought with the man she loved and hated, she truly _fought_. The Duke of Savona was the only person Kerael had ever seen stand up to her mistress in one of her rages.

The boy who brought the kettle of tea was young, and his eyes widened when he heard the noise. He pointed and mouthed, "Is that them?"

Kerael nodded and made shooing motions to send him on his way. When he was gone, she gently set the kettle in the coals of the fire and then laid down on her bed, covering her ears with her pillow.

Abruptly the yelling stopped, and its absence was followed by the sound of a door slamming. Kerael sighed and took the kettle from the fire, picking up a cup and saucer with her free hand, then climbed the stairs.

Her mistress was sitting in the window seat, leaning her temple against the glass. As she crossed the room, Kerael noticed with optimism that all the items on the floor could have been knocked off by two agitated people, careless of their motions in their anger. It didn't look like Lady Tamara had thrown anything, and nothing was broken.

Kerael put the cup down on the table, filled it, and then gently placed it and the saucer beside her mistress on the window cushion. Not surprisingly, Lady Tamara made no move to take it. Kerael started to turn away, then looked back, startled: her mistress was crying silently.

Quietly, she walked back down the stairs and rummaged in the drawers for the item she was looking for. The lace-edged handkerchief was at the very bottom of the pile of linens, for Lady Tamara never cried.

She put it next to the saucer, and Lady Tamara picked it up and silently wiped her eyes. Kerael turned away once again, to call for the ice that her mistress would probably want to take the red out of her eyes, when Lady Tamara stopped her.

"Kerael," she said. "Am I a fool?"

"No, my lady," Kerael said. Then, because her mistress lifted her head from the window and stared at her with skeptical, red-rimmed eyes, she made bold to add, "A fool would not know she had something to cry about." She backed quickly away, in case her remark should inspire further rage, but Lady Tamara's wrath had apparently spent itself on the Duke.

Kerael quietly set the room to rights, surreptitiously watching her mistress lean her head back against the window and drink the tea, her shoulders slumped. A trickle of letters had arrived since the morning, and she stacked them on the side table where Lady Tamara would see them in the morning. Kerael was dying to talk with the other servants and find out the latest gossip, to find out what exactly had gone on during that morning's walk, and hear what the reaction of the other courtiers had been.

Finally, Lady Tamara sat up and murmured, "I think I will sleep now, Kerael. Lay out my dressing gown." Kerael curtsied, though the gesture went unseen, and moved quietly to obey.

When her mistress was in bed, sleeping or trying to, Kerael took her gown and folded it neatly, placing it back in the appropriate drawer. Then she set another kettle of listerblossom tea on the table with a clean cup and slipped downstairs, through her own room, and into the narrow corridor leading to the servants' kitchen, where she happily passed the rest of the waning night telling and being told.


	7. Sword and Knife

"Go!" As his sister's horse bolted, Branaric Astiar turned his own into the path of the oncoming riders, trying to simultaneously distract them, block them from pursuing Mel, and show that he was not fleeing. He watched as her terrified horse carried her up the path, and held his breath as arrows flew over her head, all of them missing her. Through the burning pain in his back, he heard pounding hoofbeats hard behind him, and as two riders swerved around him to after Mel, he deliberately nudged his horse into the mount of the one in front. The man swore, and ripped his sword from its sheath, bringing it down in a vicious blow towards Bran's neck. Somehow, he managed to get his own rapier clear of its saddle-sheath in time to ward the blade, but the blow sent pain jarring across his whole body. He gasped, and his sword fell from numb fingers. _I'm sorry, Mel,_ he thought as he waited for death.

More shouts from the road beyond, and when the blow never came he turned his head to look. Warriors in blue and black and white were attacking the greeners from behind, and his assailant had ridden back to help his comrades. But the Renselaeus equerries were better trained, and had the element of surprise; after a few moments, Bran had the presence of mind to nudge his horse into the tree line, out of range of arrows, as he watched the battle through a haze of pain.

Even before it had ended, two equerries approached him and flanked him. "Can you ride, Lord Branaric?" the woman asked with a bow.

"Think—so," he gritted out, his breath coming in short gasps as he used his left hand to clumsily guide his horse. "Where—to?"

The man gestured through the trees. "This way, if you please."

They flanked Bran closely, supporting him and helping him stay in the saddle; even so, the world dimmed before his eyes, and the passage of time seemed curiously slow. Warm blood ran down his torso and dripped down his leg, so that he left a trail of dark spots as he rode. Their pace was out of necessity so slow that ere they had gone very far, pounding hoof beats sounded behind them. Bran tried to twist around to see who it was, but the pain kept him from turning more than halfway.

"Do not fear," said the woman. "It is our own forces."

Soon they were surrounded by Renselaeus warriors; at least a full riding, and probably two, Bran thought, not sure whether he was counting accurately or seeing double. A brief conversation flowed around him, that seemed to pertain to the state of his wound, but he couldn't quite follow it. But they must have reached some sort of agreement, for the next moment someone reined his horse in, and strong, gentle hands were lifting him down from the saddle. Still, fresh fire blossomed from his shoulder, and he bit his lip to keep from swearing.

Somehow they got him off his horse and helped him stumble into a hastily-erected tent, where a young healer with short brown hair was waiting. But something urgent was nagging at his mind, and he croaked, "Mel. Got to go after Mel."

"Not now," the healer said. "Lay down." She helped him onto the low camp cot, and held a cup of tea to his mouth. As he swallowed, he tasted the bitterness of sleep herbs, and very soon the pain, along with all other sensations, faded.

-

Mistress Kylar washed her hands, checked on her unconscious patient one last time, and then left the tent, making sure to fasten the flap behind her. She didn't want any flies in the tent; the highland chill should keep them away, but she wasn't taking any chances.

His Grace the Marquis was talking with the riding captains; as she approached, they bowed and dispersed. "The Astiars have a remarkable affinity for injury, my lord," she ventured.

The shadows at the corner of his mouth deepened. "How is he?"

"He will survive and should heal quickly, Your Grace, though he will be in pain and unable to use his arm for some time."

"Can he be moved?"

"If he must," she said reluctantly. "He is unconscious now and would not feel it."

The Marquis nodded once, and she bowed and turned away to make sure her own mount was in order. Then she quickly rolled her healing supplies into the precious cloths bespelled to keep away sickness and packed them in her saddlebags.

She rode side-by-side with the Renselaeus warrior who carried the unconscious lord, and she did not have to warn him to be careful of the shoulder. There was not much of a family resemblance between the Count of Tlanth and his sister, she thought; one was tall, the other short, and their features were dissimilar. Only their eyes were the same, she thought.

Lord Branaric stirred once on the trip, groaning, and she quickly dosed him with tea again. It took more than it should have, and he kept mumbling about his sister. _Well, they're both stubborn,_ she thought. And both loyal to each other: she had been the one to dress the Countess's leg again after she had wrenched it trying to escape the camp in Tlanth.

It was not long before they arrived at the old, decaying woodcutter's shack, which would serve as the command post through the approaching battle. Kylar saw her patient safely inside, then went to replenish her supplies from the stock wagon. Fighting was coming, and she would be dearly needed.

-

Bran awoke to the smell of listerblossom tea, emanating from a cup held by the young woman standing by his bedside. She helped him to sit up enough so that he would not choke on the hot liquid, but even that small motion left him in strong pain.

"Where am I?" he croaked.

"Near the border of Tlanth," she said. "In the Old Forest."

"Where's Mel?"

"She returned back to Tlanth."

Startled, Bran lifted his head higher to see Vidanric standing behind the healer. "Danric! When did you get here?"

"The same time you did," the Marquis said drily. "If you're referring to my arrival at the skirmish, shortly after you were shot."

Bran lay back down with a groan. "What's going on?"

"Nenthar Debegri had spies watching in the inns for your return to Tlanth," Vidanric said. "I found out about them too late to warn you. The escort overpowered the men he sent and brought you here."

"Where?" He tried to look around, to see more of his surroundings, but the movement hurt too much.

"In the former premises of a woodcutter, which are currently serving as the command post for the army."

"Army?"

"Galdran is coming with his own men to fire Tlanth and kill you all," said Vidanric. "It seemed expeditious to halt him."

"Then… he knows?" Bran said, wincing. "About your conspiracy?"

"I believe he does," the Marquis said. "And much as I would like to witness his reaction, events require me to be here."

The healer finished changing the dressing and gathered the dirty linens up. As she did so, she said, "You're out of danger, Your Lordship, but you'll be weak for some time and you're likely to get a fever. Exerting yourself will only make it worse."

When the door—and it was a door, Bran noted, not a tapestry—swung shut behind her, Bran said, "How do you know about Mel?"

"Scouts reported her arrival. She was bound for Erkan-Astiar."

"Was she hurt?"

"No."

"I told her… to go back to our people," Bran said. "She'll probably stay… there until this is over."

"You discount the loyalty she has shown to you so far," Vidanric said. There was a wry tone to his voice, and he rubbed his palm absent-mindedly.

"What do you think she'll do, then?"

"As she believes I am responsible for your death, it is most likely that she will seek a swift and exacting reprisal, sword and knife in hand." he said. "I'm about to go to Vesingrui in hopes of intercepting her there."

Bran frowned. "Mel's not… stupid. You really think… she'll be there?" He took a deep breath to try to ease the pain.

"Breathing fire and hunting my blood, most likely," the Marquis said wryly. "Permit me to suggest that you rest before you exacerbate your condition, however." He stood.

"You'll be back… with her?"

"I very much hope so."

Bran stopped the other man as he reached for the doorknob. "Take…" he began. "Take care of her, will you?"

The Marquis paused. "As well as I am able," he said. Then he was gone.

-

As Mistress Kylar returned from replenishing her supplies, she was in time to see the Marquis mount his grey and ride quickly away with a riding as escort. "Where is he off to now?" she asked one of the equerries, who was carrying a load of debris out of the room next to that of her patient.

"Off to Vesingrui, for Her Ladyship," was the reply.

"Can't anyone in that family stay out of trouble?" she murmured to herself.

"Mistress Kylar?" It was Verin, the man who had brought Lord Branaric from the site of the battle. "The Count is up, and he's asking for maps. I thought I should check with you first."

"Apparently not," she said. Verin looked confused.

"I beg your pardon?"

She sighed. "Yes, he may have them, but I'll take them in. It's time for him to have more tea, as well." _I'd better increase the dosage of sleep herb_, she thought.

- - -

Author's note: My first foray into CCD fics for a while. How did it turn out? Bran and Shevraeth might be OOC. I'd actually planned to publish this separately, but realized it fit "Meetings in the Mist", so I compromised by keeping the title.


End file.
